Run

By the time I caught up with him he was bent double, hands on his knees, like an obese American forced to walk the final few hundred yards for his happy meal after his car had given up the ghost. 

I wasn’t doing much better myself, the crisp white blouse I’d put on that morning already ear-marked for the washing basket. Plus I sounded like an asthmatic who’d lost her inhaler. 

“Why’d you run?” I finally managed.

“Because… Because you chased me,” he puffed.

“But I only chased you because you ran.”

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